The Dirty Book Club(52)

“Sure,” Dan said, embers and sparks returning to his face. “What are the stakes?”

“If you’re right, you have my blessing to go to Boston.”

“And if I’m not?”

“You stay.”

They agreed with a firm handshake, drew their phones, and woke their search engines.

Dan’s lips moved as he read the results. “Shit.”

“Yes!” M.J. trumpeted, hangover be dammed. Of course she felt guilty taking Dan away from the displaced patients of Massachusetts General. She wasn’t a monster. But the Red Cross could replace Dan, M.J. could not. “Unpack your rucksack, Dr. Hartwell. Because Bost-on is Bost-off.”

He lowered his phone. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Of course I’m sure.” She beamed. “They’ll find another volunteer.”

“No, are you sure you want to do that,” he pointed at her bicycling legs.

“You mean celebrate?”

“I mean gloat.” Dan practically pressed his screen against M.J.’s nose.

She scanned four pages of search results before conceding. And when she did she felt as if her bones had liquefied and her soul had been swept away by the current. Not only because she was forced to say good-bye to Dan—again. But because she had said good-bye to her former self at the same time. The self that knew its way around the English language better than most, definitely better than Dan.

In the weeks that she had been in Pearl Beach M.J. had lost her confidence, her sense of purpose, and now this bet. Though she hadn’t gotten her period in months, she was bleeding out. And only one thing could stop it.

After Dan left, she yanked the restaurant delivery list from their junk drawer, ordered a buffet amount of Chinese food, and hate-ate her way into a decision: she would sign the contract and overnight it to Gayle. Because if home is where the heart is, and that heart is gone most of the time, the mind was all M.J. had left. And that would be gone by Thanksgiving if she didn’t get back to work.



* * *



THE FIRST FEW times her phone beeped, M.J. was able to ignore it. Because when one combines a tearful good-bye and a generous intake of MSG, to an already existing hangover, the nap is death-deep. But the beeping continued and it was relentless.

Groggy, M.J. sat up on the couch and checked her text messages.

ADDIE: 911 @ the bookstore. Pls come.

BRITT: Did u see Addie’s txt? Heading to the bookstore now. Need a ride? I still have the Mini, remember?

ADDIE: Where r u?

BRITT: Last chance for a ride.

BRITT: Leaving now. Maybe ur not going. J isn’t. She’s still pissed at Addie for offering D a vibrator.

BRITT: Maybe you’re already there. K. Bye.

M.J. shouldered her way through the wall of gawkers to find a blue-collar ballet of first responders: police officers cordoning off the storefront with caution tape, a fireman climbing toward Addie’s bedroom window, the man in the Doyle Plumbing shirt at the foot of his ladder with the low ponytail, hand-over-fisting him a giant blue hose.

Addie, as if posing for an album cover, was leaning against the building—sole of her sneaker pressed against the black brick facade, arms folded and hair coaxed into a come-hither tousle. And Britt was dutifully by her side cupping a venti whatever it was.

“You’re still wearing that nightgown?” Britt said as M.J. hurried toward them, the heels of her Gucci clogs clunking against the sidewalk.

“I thought it was an emergency.”

Addie pushed herself away from the wall. “It is,” she said, lifting the caution tape and waving Britt and M.J. under.

“Ma’am, it’s not safe in there,” called one of Pearl Beach’s finest.

“We’ll only be a minute, officer.”

“Hold up!” Jules called as she scuttled toward them, her key necklace knocking against her chest.

The afternoon sun revealed no sign of the previous night’s damage. Her cheeks had been blushed to a rosy rebirth, the merlot-colored puffs under her eyes drained and concealed. Even her hair, now cornrow-free and curling-iron-kissed had been restored to its original factory settings. “Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I forgive you for being vulgar in front of my daughter.”

Addie reached under the caution tape and yanked Jules toward her. “I’m fine with that.”

“Ma’am!”

“We’re just grabbing our purses, officer, we’ll be right back.”

He cut a look to the tote hanging from the crook of Britt’s elbow, the cross-body bag at M.J.’s hip, the clutch tucked under Jules’s arm. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I was told not to—”

“Thanks.” Addie beamed as she shoved the girls inside and locked the door behind her.

“Where are the lights?” M.J. asked.

“Um, electricity might not be the best idea right now,” Britt said, pointing at the buckling ceiling, where water leaked in incontinent dribbles and the bookmarks, once stiff and robust, now coiled in shame. And that smell—wet dog and chemicals—it was as if the walls were sweating out the toxins.

“What in the ham sandwich happened?” Jules asked.

“The bathtub challenge, that’s what,” Addie said. “I never would have brought Bungee back to my apartment if you hadn’t—”